


Flowers in the Spring

by somethingcorporate



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Jealousy, Kissing, Marriage, Weddings, joaniarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 16:50:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10925997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingcorporate/pseuds/somethingcorporate
Summary: Joan Watson is getting married to someone else, and Moriarty is none too pleased.





	Flowers in the Spring

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Rendezvous Series](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081449) by [brocanteur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/pseuds/brocanteur). 



Jamie was sitting in her club chair as the morning began to air through the windows, spilling light across her lap. It was early, and she was impeccably dressed, with millions of things to do—inserting herself into a regime was one of them. She had breakfast planned in an hour, in the hotel up the block, where she had her men stationed should anything go awry.

And yet, she found herself...immobile.

There on the stand before her lay open Sherlock's most recent letter, detailing his insights, into her, into himself, and then the otherwise banal day-to-day actions of those around him. Or, at least, he found them banal, for buried somewhere between was news of Watson’s impending marriage.

Her Watson.

He'd known better, but that's precisely why he'd done it.

Petulant.

Of course, he loved her. Not the same way Jamie did, not quite. Nor did Jamie love him quite the way she cared for Watson. It was all off by degrees, colored in shades. Too much to detail the differences, and it didn't matter either way.

The matter at hand, regardless of the many points that had brought them each, in separate ways, together, was that she and Sherlock were both losing their Watson.

That was something Jamie could not abide.

And while Sherlock was a noble friend, Jamie had no friends and saw little worth in the charade of nobility.

She reached forward, slipped her fingers around the cup of tea that sat beside his open letter and brought it to her lips. Slowly, she let out a cool breath of air, meant to curtail the heat that rose, if only the very tip of it. She sipped, quietly, thoughtfully.

She would need, it seemed, to make a special trip to New York in the very near future.

* * *

 

 Joan had, and had not, always been the type to marry.

Which is to say that she had her ambitions, and she had her family's expectations. More often than not, she found herself somewhere in between, although, when she'd met Sherlock, her own desires became much clearer. In him she'd found, for the first time, someone enough like herself that what she wanted in life seemed normal. At least, worthy of further consideration, as every detail was. The first rule Sherlock had taught her.

Yet, while she had learned to accept some of her less typical desires, there were other provincial needs she couldn't shake, either. One didn't outweigh the other. There had to be balance. She didn't, for example, need a steady romantic partner who she cooked dinner for and sat around the dinner table with discussing her day. But she also didn't want a revolving door of sexual partners of every variety just to keep the cold away at night.

She needed adventure. And, she wanted stability.

She'd found this in Sherlock, but the idea of him as a romantic partner was just ridiculous. It wasn't even worth considering. Not to say she loved him like a brother but...well, she didn't think of him as a lover either.

What she felt was something else; something that didn't need a name.

And she liked it that way.

So, Nicholas. He came along, all wiry and academic, quoting Kant offhand, but wooing her with mystery novels he'd found in rare book shops. He was charming. Intriguing, without, say, being a sociopath or misanthrope. (Two types of people Joan seemed to attract.) He wasn't demanding, either, but he was confident enough in himself that his courtship seemed...cheerfully restrained. He allowed her to take her time, and when she was slow to respond, he didn't push. A text here, flowers there. A patient, kind smile when she reached out to him after weeks of silence—  
sometimes because she was working a case; other times because she just wasn't in the mood to be seen; to perform. And he didn't expect her to.

She fell in love almost by accident.

It wasn't a question, either. Just as she'd known she would become Sherlock's apprentice, she'd known she would marry Nicholas. Joan valued clarity as much as she valued balance, and this truth was one she treasured with quiet determination.

And yet...

She'd expected Sherlock's tight smile; his curt nod. His offhand inquiry into whether she'd need a person of honor, which he'd meant as a joke, or a person to give her away—that, she knew, was not a joke.

What she'd also expected was a gift, or intrusion from...their mutual acquaintance. A letter maybe, or congratulatory message. Something that was both sincere and snide. Moriarty was almost always both, if not something else completely. She offered many things, but clarity and consistency weren't any of them.

With Moriarty, adventure was the only thing she could expect. A mystery at every turn.

That she'd thought she would hear from her was vain, Joan knew. Other than their very first encounter, they'd only been alone together once. But it was, as one would expect, an experience.

* * *

 

It was two years ago, in late spring, and Joan had been on her way to her 15-year college anniversary. The last time she'd gone, she'd been a sober companion. Before that, a doctor. Now, a detective. Her classmates would think she was crazy, and Joan liked that. In college, she hadn't been considered the spontaneous type. Studious, if anything, except on the weekends when her friends got her drunk enough to karaoke. That she, since graduating, was able to keep everyone guessing was a small joy. In each of her lines of work, small pleasures were everything.

So, she was looking forward to the trip from New York to Boston; only 4 hours by train—more, depending on Amtrak's mood for reliability. She'd thought she would read one of the 11 textbooks on geology that Sherlock had invited her to read during her three-day trip, or an Agatha Christie classic her then-new boyfriend Nicholas had surprised her with. But the quiet bustle of the train had lulled her into an easy sleep, where she dreamed of picking locks with scalpels, of the surgical resident she'd slept with in medical school, of Boston foliage, of nothing. Sherlock had taught her to be content with the way the mind wandered. The path it eventually led to was always worth exploring, even in dreams.

But she felt something outside herself. A disturbance in the air, maybe. She opened her eyes with a frown, and there, sitting across from her, was Moriarty.

Blond hair pulled back in a perfect bun; green eyes keen, bright. Her legs were crossed, her fingers clasped. She should've looked stiff, but that wasn't her way. Instead, she looked like a cat, ready to pounce and not bothering to hide it, but not in any rush, either.

Joan should have been scared, but she wasn't awake enough yet. Confused, and caught off guard, yes. But not scared. That didn't account for the sudden beating of her heart, but...

Moriarty had said nothing. Not for a while. She simply watched her, a ghost of a smile on her lips, her eyes following lazily as Joan became more alert, more acquainted with the danger she might be in. A dozen thoughts ran through her mind at once, dots trying to connect. Moriarty, the woman she had tricked out of nearly a billion dollars, who in turn and unrelatedly had murdered the drug lord who’d put a bounty on Joan's head, had been released from the prison Joan put her in. And she was sitting right in front of her.

Joan wasn't sure what or how to feel. She settled on cautious curiosity.

When the train stopped, Moriarty had gestured toward the door, invited her to take a walk. Having no other option, Joan agreed.

They'd gotten off at a stop in some quaint little town, and Moriarty led her to a plateau steps past the train center, shaped like an open chapel, with white beams and cement covered in the chalk drawings of the town's children.

"May I have your phone?" Moriarty had asked, and Joan hesitated. Then, again more curious than afraid, she handed it to her. Their fingers touched, lingered, and then Moriarty slipped the device into her coat pocket.

From there, they wandered. Moriarty had asked her questions, basic questions, like where she grew up and what she'd studied in school. Most things, Joan was sure Moriarty knew the answer to, what with having a vast global network of spies and assassins at her beck and call. But, Moriarty seemed nonetheless keen to listen. She answered almost none of Joan's questions—but, they talked. While pre-Med, Joan had always had an interest in literature, and they talked about Shakespeare, and Whitman. Surprisingly, Moriarty knew her fair share of Lorde and Morrison. They shared quotes; debated philosophies.

At one point, they stumbled across a small art studio, which Joan was sure, later, she'd been led to. Moriarty wandered, looking at nothing, or at Joan, who looked at each painting with interest. One of these, Joan thought, must be hers. Sherlock had said that Moriarty, as Irene, did not create her own artwork, but then again, Moriarty, by trade, was a liar.

They left, and found a library, a bookstore, a coffee shop. At some point, Joan had paused briefly to note a garden of peonies that adorned someone's home down a street they'd meandered onto. Then, they found themselves back at the train station.

Seven hours had passed.

Joan had meant to arrive at campus three hours before. But, Moriarty had known this, or something like this, somehow. A car was waiting for her—Moriarty would not be joining, she'd said, as she handed Joan back her phone.

Inside, on the satin-lined seats, were a dozen roses. And, when the car stopped two hours later, she was outside the campus of her alma mater.

A month later, as Joan descended the steps of the Brownstone she shared with Sherlock one morning on her way to a case, she looked down to the street to see freshly planted peonies in the soil of every tree that lined the block.

* * *

 

Romantic overtures were, by any account, beyond him. But in all the ways that Joan was exceptional she was, in this way, conventional. Sherlock placed no judgement on this, because she was Joan, and she escaped his superior scrutiny. Moriarty, however, seemed rather keen to indulge.

Peonies. Those were the first of her advances, and, since that day, no other flower had appeared on their street once a trace of Spring had presented itself. From there, it was any number of things—all in grand scale. Once, in the mail, Joan received a key of rather bland appearance. Upon further investigation, they learned it was a key to a private library on the Upper East Side. Joan's library, according to the deed they found onsite.

Joan didn't use the library. She ignored the peonies. Once, she'd received a telegram from a man inviting her to a balcony seat usually reserved for dignitaries at the Metropolitan Opera, and Sherlock wasn't sure if the man should be more frightened of her or Moriarty. Joan was not, by her own account, interested in Moriarty's games.

But being uninterested and being immune are two different beasts altogether.

Only once had Sherlock accused Moriarty of something as unfathomable as having pure intentions, or even slightly less than evil ones. He’d expected her to lie, one way or another, or obfuscate. She did not, in fact, respond at all. All was silent from whatever corner of the world she commanded her army. When finally he did receive her next correspondence, nearly eight months later, she responded not at all to his previous accusation. That, he supposed, was his answer.

To say that he was wary was to say the least. The cameras he’d removed from their Brownstone had been returned, though Joan this time was aware, and he insisted, furthermore, that her studies thus far in self-defense were insufficient. She’d been saved by Moriarty once, but then, Moriarty had been intrigued. Now, he worried that she’d become a cat playing with her meal. As years passed with only gifts and brief notes and grand gestures, his concern shifted, his own intrigue piqued.

If it were a game, it was a long one indeed.

* * *

 

“Love” was not a term Jamie used loosely. By her own preference, she used the word rarely, if at all. But she was not, also, a fool. One became trapped by the emotions they hid or ran from. She embraced them, used them to her advantage. People could do the cruelest things for love, after all. She’d been able to fool a mind nearly as brilliant as her own in just that way. Sherlock. But then, it was Watson who used those same emotions against her.

This, Jamie was sure, was because she’d underestimated the former surgeon. For that, she had lost precious time laying other plans into motion.

She knew better now.

Joan Watson was not to be underestimated. And, having taken the time to learn her object of interest, Jamie knew as well that Joan was not to be ignored. She was beautiful, thoroughly. A work of art. And Jamie did so appreciate art.

That Watson was also a writer was an educated guess, and Jamie was keen for a response of any sort from her chosen interest. In a message left by her lieutenant, she’d asked Watson for something of hers to read. She’d shared her own artwork, after all. Several months later, her lieutenant approached her with Joan’s manuscript—a draft about her adventures with Sherlock.

(Love could be any number of things; so it was with intimacy.)

In any event, the manuscript would have been a fascinating character study of the both of them. But, the writing had been delightful. Surprised by herself, Jamie had wanted to read more.

She always wanted more from Watson—which was odd, for her. Wanting more, from any one person.

But she knew that Watson was willing to give it to her.

She’d known as she watched Watson dream that she wanted her. And she knew, when Watson failed to tell Sherlock of this most recent correspondence, that she had her. Watson may not have known this, but it didn’t matter.

Moriarty knew.

* * *

 

Joan had told her mother’s insisted-upon wedding planner that she didn’t want flowers at her wedding. That was the first thought she had when she entered the venue she and Nicholas had settled on—a small industrial loft in DUMBO. Her second thought was that, in any case, the wedding was six months away, and it was a bit much for the loft to be so decorated when it was only her second walk-through.

Her third thought—and she was angry with herself that it took so long—was that the peonies were, nonetheless, breathtaking.

She sighed and spoke without turning around. “You had the wedding planner call me.”

A low chuckle emerged from behind her, and Joan felt her skin grow warm. “My dear Watson, don’t sound so disappointed.”

Joan took a deep breath and turned around, burying a hand in her black tresses. “I think there’s some sort of privacy contract that prevents consultants from giving out their client’s personal information. Don’t tell me you threatened to kill everyone she loves.”

Moriarty smiled, assessing her. “Nothing quite so dramatic, darling.” She was wearing a long black trench coat and her hands were tucked in each pocket. She looked as if she had only come out for stroll, like a normal person and not a criminal mastermind. “I was a close friend with a wedding gift. She was happy to oblige.”

“Close friend?” Joan scoffed. She sighed and looked around for—something. She didn’t want to look at Moriarty; that would be too…much. She settled for the peonies that lined the beams on the ceiling.

“No?” Moriarty asked, crossing her arms. She came close to Joan, taking one slow step in front of the other. “What would you say we are then?”

Joan continued to stare at the ceiling, her eyebrows furrowed. “You like them, too.”

“Sorry?”

“Peonies,” Joan said, looking finally at the woman in front of her. “It was the flower ‘Mr. Stapleton’ left you in the Brownstone. When you were pretending to be Irene.”

Moriarty cocked her head to the side. “You’re afraid of me.” Joan looked back down. “Your fingers are clenched,” Moriarty continued. “And you have managed to look at me precisely once, directly. But you weren’t afraid before. What’s changed?”

Joan forced herself to look back into Moriarty’s bright, green eyes. Was that disappointment she saw there? Or something else? She didn’t want to guess; to be pulled into this game. It was one thing, to be bombarded by gifts and letters and whatever else. To be played with from a distance. It was another thing entirely to be in Moriarty’s presence; to be constantly aware, her every sense on fire. If this was how both Moriarty and Sherlock felt every second of their lives, Joan’s heart broke for them. It was exhausting; painful. She hated every moment of it. She kept her eyes on Moriarty, but said nothing.

Something in Moriarty’s expression softened. “Mycroft Holmes. Elana Marsh. Others. It’s been two years since I’ve last seen you, and since then, you’ve had no less than three attempts on your life. You’ve been kidnapped, even. You can’t risk not being afraid.” She nodded to herself. “I can understand that. But I assure you, Watson. I have no desire to kill you. Or, to hurt you.”

Against her better judgement, Joan’s shoulders relaxed. Her fingers unclenched. She tried to conjure images of Andrej Bacera, and his wife. Of Christoph Theophilus. Their dead and bloody bodies, riddled in bullet wounds. Of Elana Marsh, strangled to death on the floor of a prison cell. She tried to remember Sherlock the first time she met him, only just sober after Irene died, but still so broken. And how broken he’d become again, after he learned that Irene had never even lived.

Moriarty was a murderer. A sadist. She was evil. Beautiful and alluring, and even more dangerous for just those very reasons. Joan rolled her eyes up again to the ceiling.

The goddamn peonies.

“What do you want, Moriarty?” She asked, softly.

Moriarty studied Joan; the rapid play of emotions across her face. She looked to the side and sighed. “You’re getting married.”

Joan threw up her hands, a feeble show of the rage and terror and irritation she was feeling. “Yes, obviously. Is that what you came here to talk about? You could’ve sent a card or, a library. Did you buy us a house? A mansion, maybe. Or maybe you’ve come to tell me he’s dead. Have you been lying in wait, until you could find something other than me or Sherlock that you could murder in cold blood without feeling like ‘the world would be a darker place’ without us?”

Moriarty’s quick strides and her lips on Joan’s cheek were unexpected, as was the immobility of her arms, which Moriarty now pinned to her sides. Pinned or – she was holding her. When had she gotten so close? How? “Are you quite finished, darling?” Moriarty whispered, her breath mere centimeters from Joan’s ear.

Joan shrugged out of Moriarty’s arms and walked around her, away from her. She kept walking, straight toward the front door.

“So, I’m right then,” Moriarty called out to her, her voice risen but lilting.

Joan bit, unable to stop herself. “About what?” She said turning around. Moriarty’s eyes were fiery, but they cooled quickly. Her expression softened. She smiled and stepped beside Joan, so that they were both in front of the exit.

“I told you once that I would move on, once I’d figured you out.” She lifted a finger, traced it along Joan’s cheek bone, saw the flutter of her eyes as she tried to keep them open, tried not to lean in. “I confess that the game has changed.”

“What are you talking about?” Joan swallowed, her voice thicker than she would have liked.

“You may have your marriage, Joan Watson. I wish you all the happiness in the world,” Moriarty said with a sigh. She stepped in front of Joan and then turned around, another smile. “I was concerned, that, perhaps, something would be lost.” She gestured between them vaguely. “But I see now, with my own eyes, that that is not the case.” She stepped closer, brushed her lips against Joan’s. Joan took a deep breath, but didn’t move. Didn’t dare. She didn’t know why, but she knew it wasn’t fear. It wasn’t fear, and she hated herself for that.

Then Moriarty moved closer, lips pressing, pulling. How was it possible for someone so monstrous to be so gentle? Joan didn’t know. She wanted to know. She wanted to know everything.

Moriarty pulled back, but only slightly. She watched Joan’s lips, dragged her gaze slowly to Joan’s eyes. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it to your ceremony, my dear Watson. But you will think of me, won’t you?”

Then she turned away and walked out of the loft, a smile, as always, playing on her lips.

Joan covered her mouth quickly, the last 10 minutes running through her mind as she tried to figure out what happened. What she’d allowed to happen. She ran a hand through her hair and tried, desperately, not to cry.

Sherlock. She would call him. Tell him everything, anything. He wouldn’t know what to do, but he would understand. He was the only one who could.


End file.
